


what lingers unspoken

by gabriphales



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Codependency, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:27:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23809144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: gabriel and aziraphale have an interesting relationship
Relationships: Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	what lingers unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is the worst thing i have ever written and id like to thank caffeine for helping me finish it

The first time it happens, Gabriel's sorely unprepared.

Aziraphale comes to him after the flood. The Flood, with bright, emboldened capital letters. The flood he'd signed off on, given his stamp of approval. Though such a thing in situations like the above meant very little - what was he, an angel, even of his status, to do if he found himself straying from the Almighty's intentions. Her agonies, Her sorrows at Her children's failures. Failures, they _must_ be terribly awful failures, because Gabriel can't make out another way for this to all stay comprehensible.

Surely, God wouldn't take to drowning so many of Her children unless they truly, irrefutably brought it upon themselves.

But Aziraphale doesn't seem to see things that way. He's in an absolutely wretched state, all quivering hands and soft, weakening red eyes. The flushed face of someone who's spent the last five days eating up most hours by wailing through them, impassive to the passage of time. He looks miserable. He must _feel_ miserable too, to be coming to Gabriel for guidance.

It's not that they don't _like_ each other, necessarily. No, it's never that, _definitely_ never that, Gabriel reminds himself. It's just that Aziraphale's quite fickle, always switching up when and how he reacts to Gabriel's orders, Gabriel's disposition. A cool, discerning demeanor, unfiltered by emotion, that he's certain must stay the same - it's Aziraphale who ends up working himself into a tizzy over the smallest things. Acting like Gabriel's gone out of his way to hurt him. He most certainly hasn't - if he wanted to hurt Aziraphale, he could do a much better job. He's good at things, good at everything he does. Not that he wants to hurt him. He doesn't want to, that's the whole point.

But Aziraphale seems to think he does. Still, it's Gabriel's arms he ends up going slack in. Gabriel's chest he retires himself to a meek, mild cry against. The crude, filthy press of wet tears soaking through his robes is enough to make Gabriel wince, but he doesn't let it show. At least, he hopes it doesn't. It's a terribly mortal thing, crying. But Aziraphale's been with the mortals for so long - so long it often seems like he might be incrementally shifting towards a humble, godless existence.

 _That's blasphemous,_ Gabriel decides, without devoting much more thought to the matter. _Angels don't become mortal, they either fall, or they stay the same. Eternally, undeniably the same._

He doesn't want Aziraphale to fall.

But he doesn't spend too much time deliberating on that, either.

Aziraphale is easy as Gabriel hooks an arm under his buckling knees, lifting him with a self-assured accuracy. There's a sharp, nagging pinch of something lingering just underneath his skin. The notification of a miracle, coming from Aziraphale with a snap of his fingers he tucks under his sleeve. He doesn't know why he's done it, or _what_ he's done, for that matter. But it seems what little humans there are around them don't pay much mind as he comes scuttling down the barren streets.

He wonders what it's like to know humans so well. Though he often puts on a good show of knowing, he thinks, when in Aziraphale's company, their gap in experience is quite severe. Perhaps the only gap they've got where Aziraphale's on the beneficiary side. The one who holds some small speckling of power, no matter how indecisive he is about actually informing Gabriel when he's done something _utterly_ imbecilic with human kind.

"It's not that you're foolish - no, no, surely not that! it's just that - well, they can be a bit tricky at times. And you're so full of, er, divine expertise, you've hardly got room for anything else, now, have you?" Aziraphale had told him once, his laugh at the time betraying the slightest smidge of nerves. He'd sounded quite anxious, quite unmistakably, and Gabriel hadn't been able to understand why.

Perhaps he understands now. Just a little bit better - though even that might be a gratious bet.

They clamber into the warm, secluded inn Gabriel can discern as the one Aziraphale's always going on about, the one he likes best. It, too, is substantially empty. There's a whole load of unattended rooms, mattresses thick and plentiful in available number.

Aziraphale still asks Gabriel to stay in his room with him. If only for the night, he needs company. Somebody to remain until his head properly clears.

And who is Gabriel to refuse a plea so delicately offered? It's an opportunity, at the very least, to supply the depths of their relationship with something more substantial. A grounding proof that he can be trusted, that Aziraphale doesn't need to go about flinching and cowering down from him all the time. It's not like Gabriel doesn't notice, does he think Gabriel wouldn't?

He really does. He notices so much it's starting to wear on him, a steadily building bruise he doesn't have time for, nor care enough to tend to.

Standing in the corner, just off to the side, doesn't be seeming to do much good for Aziraphale. Aside from the occasional giggle when he rolls on his side, and finds Gabriel still stoic, ever stiff and unpenetrable, he's obviously a little unsettled by the whole ordeal. And Gabriel - Gabriel's supposed to be _helping,_ isn't he? He'll find a way to help. He's good at helping, he must be, he's an Archangel. The Archangel, the one to guide them all. Like lambs from the slaughter, or something of that sort.

"Would you like me to sleep with you instead?" he asks, the question coming out more huffy, wearily impatient than he might've liked it to.

Aziraphale blinks at him, and looks an awful lot like he might burst into an absolute fit all over again. "I don't - I don't know, I think... _perhaps,_ it might be best for us to keep our distance."

"But you said it yourself; you're not feeling well. Wouldn't some comfort at your side buck you into better shape, get your spirits back in order?"

It's not that he's trying to _insist._ He just doesn't know what else to do, and Aziraphale - Aziraphale looks helpless, he has to admit. Gabriel doesn't like things that are helpless. If something's gone sour around him, it's a result of his own failure to properly care for them. At least, that's how he sees it. He's the Almighty's nurturer, the link between strength and love. He's an angel, he's _made_ of love. He ought to be able to look after Aziraphale, if only for a little while. If only for tonight.

Aziraphale clasps his hands together, holding back a few tetchy phrases Gabriel just knows are welded to the back of his throat, chipping at his teeth with their strain to burst free. 

"That might be true." he finally settles, shifting in the mattress to give Gabriel just enough room that he wouldn't slip off after a single uncalculated roll. Gabriel's quick to shuffle in beside him, his front parallel with Aziraphale's back - though never touching, absolutely _no_ touching would be allowed - when Aziraphale turns to face away.

"This is nice," Gabriel hums, thinking aloud. "I can see why the humans spend so many hours of the night just laying on these things."

"They need to, to properly resuscitate their - their _energy,_ you know." Aziraphale says. There's a distinctively wobbly quality to his voice, one Gabriel can't ignore. He slings an arm over his side, across Aziraphale's shoulder, and the tenseness he's met with there is quick to hurry itself into a less noticeable, yet equally present holding still.

"It's alright. If you need to cry again, you can. I'm here." he's quick to reassure, though the words feel painfully stilted coming from his mouth. He hopes they aren't the same to Aziraphale's ears, he hopes that somehow, Aziraphale won't misinterpret this. That he'll understand, he'll know Gabriel just wants what's best for him.

There's an audible sniff, and a shaky, bleary sounding inhale. "If you're going to go about mocking me, you might as well get back to your work."

Well, that's not the response he'd had in mind, is it? Though entirely predictable, considering Aziraphale's so skilled at reading into things that aren't there. Hearing implications Gabriel has no intention of giving.

"No, nono, that's not what I meant." Gabriel tries to remediate some of his prim, hurt sensibilities. "I just want you to know you can let go, yeah? I know this has been weighing pretty heavily on you. Don't know why you let these sorts of things get to you, but - but that's not important, just - just let your guard down, for Heaven's sake. I'm not going to reprimand you for that!"

He's raised his voice before he even processes the shift in tone. Aziraphale mellows out then, if only as a self-defense response. Going mostly quiet, silent aside from his sporadic snippets of sniveling. Gabriel holds him a little tighter, prays he'll recognise it as the apology it is. And Aziraphale - Aziraphale doesn't stiffen up this time. Maybe he's getting better, maybe Gabriel's help is actually working. 

_Finally,_ Gabriel thinks to himself.

And then, Aziraphale's composure crumbles once more. 

There's light peering in through the open window, the darkened sky drifting into its earliest stages of dawn. Evening passing on, making room for dull, light blues, with the slightest gleam of pale, sickly pallored yellow seeping in through the edges against the horizon. The sun's rising, Gabriel realizes. Grey clouds carrying the shadow of what hasn't entirely fizzled out yet, soft remnants of the Devil's hour.

Gabriel chooses to focus on that instead, and not on the way Aziraphale's rolled over completely now, clinging onto Gabriel as if he could store all his suffering in the gentle concave of his chest. Not on his hands skirting up the line of his back, fingers gathering up the folds of his robes, and squeezing, squeezing so tightly it must hurt. He's touching, touching and touching and touching, and none of it's invasive, none of it's even unpredictable, but Aziraphale - Aziraphale's touch is too much to handle without warning. Perhaps, too much for Gabriel even with it.

Aziraphale folds into him, his sobs eventually giving out, siphoning off into an aftermath of exhausted, worn-out breaths. Shallow bursts of air swallowed down his lungs like water down a dying man's throat. The humans would call this drying his eyes, Gabriel knows, Gabriel knows that, and he's so proud of himself when he remembers that he knows. But Aziraphale's eyes aren't dry. They're still ruefully wet, glossy and red, etched with the bloodshot veins not even a good rub and pitiful smile could do away with.

Gabriel cups his face, a thumb stroking over his equally wet cheeks. The flesh is soft, tender under his hands, and something about that breaks his heart in further increments. 

Then, without thinking - without even processing the meaning behind his intent, or if there's really any intent whatsoever - he kisses Aziraphale.

Perhaps even stranger, Aziraphale kisses him back

His mouth's a warm, sweet press against Gabriel's own. Irrevocably chaste, though he lets himself be led into something more heated without complaint. Gabriel doesn't mean to keep pushing forwards, doesn't _mean_ to roll himself over Aziraphale, propped up on his hands and knees. He most certainly doesn't mean to pull up Aziraphale's robes, breathing growing shallow and heavy as he gropes at sweet, silken skin the more it's revealed. Plush thighs shivering in his grip, only growing fuller the further Gabriel skirts up with his fingers.

His head's dizzy, heavy with it. Like there's something swelteringly hot scourging at the back of his neck, burning down his spine. His hands tremble. He shouldn't be doing this. Should he be doing this? Aziraphale seems calmer now, Aziraphale seems _comforted._ He's enjoying this. He's tugging Gabriel down for more, lips kept parted even when Gabriel draws back, just in case he might want to keep kissing him - maybe keep kissing him for the rest of eternity. 

When Aziraphale's legs spread, Gabriel shuffles earnestly onto his stomach, nestling his head between them. His mouth meets blank, untampered with flesh, but it's sensitive all the same. Receptive, warm, a delight to lick and nibble at as Aziraphale squirms, mentally working out what configuration he has in mind for himself.

Finally, he tells Gabriel, "I want you to choose it for me. _Make_ it for me."

And Gabriel does. He kisses him there until the skin goes supple. Molding into a full, chubby labia, complete with a slick-sheened clit peaking from its hood, eager for attention already. Golden white, pearlescent curls in a delicate patch, feigning a neat trimming of sorts. Gabriel takes a moment to appreciate his work, nuzzling up against the high cliff of Aziraphale's inner thigh. He's grinning from ear to ear, and Aziraphale, were he any less well-versed in his boss's immaculate self-preening, might have expected him to start drooling like a hungry dog. He does look hungry, predatory, almost.

And Aziraphale finds he'd quite like to be fully devoured.

Gabriel gives him everything he could ever want, and more than that.

-

The second time it happens, it's _Aziraphale_ whose perceptions fall short of reality.

They're kissing again. The kissing part comes easier now, but that's nothing new. It's gone in and out of practice with them, a more common occurence than whatever _this_ is. This budding relationship that ought to be cut at the stem. Bitter-root dug up with a spoon, and split apart with the dull edge of a scalpel. Gabriel tries to put an end to things, but he isn't trying hard enough. And he knows that, he knows it.

But it's easier to have plausible deniability, isn't it?

And Gabriel likes things better when they're easy to get away with. Even within his own internal monologue. So long as he can pretend he's doing all he can to keep Aziraphale at arm's length, to provide the distance between them he knows they're both sorely aching for, he won't feel guilty. And guilt - guilt is a lingering sting, the sort of thing that can pop up at any moment in time. The aftermath of a crime is eternal, if only tangible to him. His crimes, his crimes are infinitely uncountable. 

Though, he's certain Aziraphale could list them all, if he asked him to try.

Gabriel likes kissing him. There's no better word for it than that. Like, _like,_ he likes the thrill of it, the hot white pump of adrenaline that leaves him tingling beneath his skin. His chest so overstuffed with crowded, fragile ribs, and aching lungs from the breaths he doesn't bother swallowing, can hardly stand up to how hard his heart beats when Aziraphale's mouth meets his. It's a treasure, a cherishable, divinely ordained treasure. 

The Almighty must have meant for them to be this way, for some reason that Gabriel doesn't pursue the effort of further delving into.

"It's ineffable," Aziraphale had told him once, a clear-cut cop out, and a good one at that. Gabriel can respect how effortlessly he slides between the lines of questioning too much. Chewing on doubt instead of biting it back, grinding it to a fine cud between his teeth. He's mastered the art of retaining stability without completely denying himself the opportunity to stop, pause, _hesitate_ -

to wonder, is this all really worth it?

At the very least, the bitter affection he's strangled from the limp corpse of his and Gabriel's uncentered power dynamic has proved to be worth its trouble. _Gabriel's_ worth his trouble, somehow, which is something the man can hardly comprehend himself.

Aziraphale's lips are sore by the time he's done with kissing. He's thought out an easy routine for shifting the tone and atmosphere, planned this scene ahead in his mind for at least a thousand times by now. However many days have passed since Gabriel last visited, and once again, failed to fuck him raw against a rickety inn mattress - that's the definite measure of time. 

He leans back propped up by his arms, just far enough for the warm, scratchy sand underneath him to engulf his elbows. There's a giggle, and a soft, pleasant whisper of 'You can't be serious,' as Gabriel clambers over him. The familiar weight an ever-building reminder of how long it's been - how long he's been waiting for this. Waiting to be held, tucked against a body that tastes and feels and _burns_ of love.

Humans can't compare to this. Nothing compares to being sanctified at the hands of another angel.

Except, for maybe - just perhaps, dare he think it...

Aziraphale doesn't get to dare. Gabriel's fingers are slipping inside him with delicate accuracy. Still treating him as if he were something small, inadequately fragile, _imperfect._ Aziraphale doesn't want to be seen as imperfect. He doesn't want to be lesser-than, especially when the than in that scenario is Gabriel. His hands smooth the rough stubble along Gabriel's jawline, and then _grip,_ grasping at his throat.

Gabriel gasps - it's an unspeakable sound.

"Harder," Aziraphale tells him, delighting in the knowledge he'll, for once, get to be the one ordering Gabriel around. "treat me roughly, cruelly, like you're in a bit of a tiff with me."

Gabriel's grin follows each and every word, curving minisculely at the commands. "What if I really am in a tiff with you? What ever shall I do then?"

His fingers curl against Aziraphale's, and with one sharp, steady tug, he forces them back down. Pressed into the hot sand, and going limp without another fit of trouble.

"I don't know," Aziraphale laughs. It sounds like how rain pattering through fields of grass smells, like how crushing flowers feels against dry palms. "I suppose you'll have to show me."

And, once again, Gabriel delivers with pleasure.

-

The third time it happens - well, there isn't really a third time, is there? It's more of a situational "almost", a thing that could have been, were it not sorely interrupted within minutes of coming to a head.

Gabriel starts out kissing up the fine line of Aziraphale's leg. He's on his knees, Aziraphale leaning back onto a powder pink chaise. And they're stuffed away in some exuberant aristocrat's parlor, having left whatever ballroom celebration Aziraphale had invited him to in the first place. Gabriel hasn't had the opportunity of eyeing at Aziraphale's calves for a couple dozen centuries. So now that they're on full, glorious display, skin peeking through the soft white sheen of well-tailored stockings, he can't help himself.

Aziraphale, of course, makes no efforts to stop him. He does anything but, in fact. His other leg propped up by his ankle, swung over Gabriel's shoulder - only there for pressing him further down, keeping him in place. Gabriel's never stepped so close to the steep cliff of humiliation, nor felt so at peace with submission. Aziraphale just has that sort of effect on him. He's the kind of person who could make anyone like anything he wants to do to them.

Gabriel's just grateful he's that lucky, chosen anyone.

When he settles onto the chaise, Aziraphale's legs wrap around him. And he smells so much like sweet, oversaturated perfume. It's the kind of smell Gabriel knows is going to linger on his skin and clothes for far longer than Aziraphale's touch. Burned into flesh like scalding hot fingerprints - the proof that this affection shared between them is still fully requited. Sometimes, he can feel Aziraphale's getting a little tetchy with him. Sometimes he starts to fear there might be another person, another lover to satisfy his angel's needs - 

but that's just the product of an overactive, frenetic imagination, he decides. It must be, after all, who could look after Aziraphale the same way he does?

Nobody, of course.

Aziraphale kisses him like his body - this vessel, made to contain divinity beyond mortal restraints - demands it, like it's an intrinsic need. Gabriel's seen what happens to the humans denied food, water, etcetera. And Aziraphale acts just like a starving man. He goes limp and passive. Becoming a pliant, quiet thing. Which, by standards of his usual behavior, is entirely unprecedented.

Gabriel only knows the full extent of Aziraphale's ability to be calm and content when he's pressing him into some soft, well-supplied surface. And he's grateful for that alone, grateful to see Aziraphale in any manner other than what he puts off with the other Archangels. Prim, proper, a dusted antique just waiting to be shattered. But Gabriel doesn't have to worry about shattering him here. No, when they're kissing it's Aziraphale who holds the reins. Aziraphale who takes control without even really needing to do much of _anything._

And Gabriel so rarely gives up control - it's a delightful respite the both of them can thrive off of together.

Angels, generally speaking, are terribly inexperienced in earthly etiquette. Which is why, this time around, Gabriel finds himself cut off from Aziraphale, in the form of a door swinging open, and a very, _very_ quick-thinking miracle. The lights blink out. Thank Heavens Aziraphale had been prepared.

It's Sandalphon, and he - he doesn't ask too many questions. Doesn't do much of anything until the lights flick back into order, with Aziraphale and Gabriel wholly separated by then. He's come to call Gabriel back upstairs, the unaffected, impassive tone to his voice a clear-cut hint he's none the wiser for having rammed head-first into his coworker's indiscretions. 

Aziraphale only regrets not being able to give Gabriel his usual kiss farewell. Though, considering the way things are headed, he's starting to think they'll have plenty more time for those shenanigans.

-

The fourth time it happens goes by without nearly as much trouble. Aziraphale's brought into Gabriel's office for his third reprimand that month. All about the same issue - his gratuitous overuse of miracles. It's enough to have Gabriel pinching his brow, sighing something undoubtedly irritable under his breath. And that - _that's_ enough to leave Aziraphale shaking, trembling with the anticipation he can't kick to the back of his mind, dutifully ignored.

"It's uncouth, Aziraphale, carrying yourself about like this. You're damaging the entirety of Heaven's reputation when you abuse your powers. It's _ridiculous._ " Gabriel chides, drumming his fingers in a memorized pattern against the edge of his desk. Aziraphale nods, knowing his expression's gone sour, and there's little he can do to remedy it. He doesnt know where to look, how to stand, what to do while Gabriel's buckling down on him like this. Laying into his disobedience, his _insolence_ \- that's what he'd called it, and it makes it sound so much worse than it really is. Makes Aziraphale go ill with guilt, remorse begging to be sicked up where it gathers in the back of his throat.

"I'm sorry, Sir." he tries to say, though his voice is too small, and his words too mumbled to be heard.

Gabriel understands him anyways. "I know you are." And he softens.

There's a gentler lilt to his tone, then. A signal for Aziraphale to come out of hiding, stop shrouding himself away. Gabriel smiles, and it's safe, it's familiar. Aziraphale can feel his lower lip wobbling, eyes watering up with tears before he has the time to stop himself.

"Come here," Gabriel tells him. "it's alright, don't give me that face, you know I'm not really mad at you."

Aziraphale obeys without question, hurrying into Gabriel's lap like he's been bereft of a physical comfort - like being away from Gabriel brings him actual pain. He sniffles weakly against his shoulder, letting out the extent of his cries into the warm, soft silk of Gabriel's suit jacket.

"'M terribly - _terribly_ sorry," he mutters, wiping his tired eyes. "this must be lavishly expensive, I wouldn't want to ruin it."

Gabriel hushes him, rubbing up and down the small of his back. "Don't worry about it. What's gotten you so pent-up, darling? You're not usually this sensitive."

And Aziraphale holds his tongue, because really, it would be impolite to say that most of the time he just does a better job of keeping himself together, regardless of how hurt he is. He only shakes his head instead, quiet, and evening out the last of his shaky breathing.

Gabriel frowns, fierce and uncomfortable with concern. Then, his eyes start to lessen their anxious intensity, and he gets that look that Aziraphale can, unfortunately, recognize from a myriad of experience. He's just had an idea, and he looks rather proud of himself for it, too.

"Would this help?" he asks, sliding his hand between the press of Aziraphale's weight singled down on his thigh. He knows Aziraphale likes sitting like this, he knows specifically _why._ It's far easier for him to rut himself to a simple, untouched orgasm in his current position. Cumming quietly, without the added trouble of having to bring Gabriel into touching him. Gabriel wants that added trouble right now.

And it seems Aziraphale does too. He's still silent, nodding for a second time, and rising to his knees in subtle offering. He's giving him better access, letting Gabriel know he can have him, he can do whatever he wants, so long as it'll get him out of his head for the afternoon.

"I just - I just feel _awful,_ like I need discipline. I - will you please, Gabriel, _please_ give me discipline?" Aziraphale begs. He's gorgeous, Gabriel thinks, all red-cheeked and rosy, giving his best puppydog eyes, because he just _knows_ how well those work on everyone he's ever supplied them against. Gabriel can't refuse him anything. Not even this. Not even as his hands quiver when he turns Aziraphale over his desk, watching as he shivers against the cool metal. 

He tugs his trousers down. Divesting him of everything below the waist, and holding his thighs spread just enough for him to get a good view of his already interested cunt. He's flushed and swollen there, a bright pink that makes Gabriel's chest tighten with pride. That's his doing, he realizes. He's the only one who makes Aziraphale feel like this, the only one who can pleasure him.

The only one willing to treat him cruelly when he needs it. 

They've done this before, actually. Only once, though Gabriel's just as nervous as he'd been the first time his fingers skirted along the edge of his flat, 12-inch ruler. Usually contained to occupying his desk drawer, it must be positively _delighted_ at having another opportunity to pursue something exciting. He tests the weight of it in his hand, brings it down carefully against his palm - laughing softly when Aziraphale flinches at the crack of it hitting his skin.

"Hold still," Gabriel tells him, fingers tugging at the sensitive baby hairs curling on the nape of Aziraphale's neck. He holds him down that way, keeps him from squirming too fiercely with the first smack of his ruler. Aziraphale gasps, lets out an adorable sound - the kind of sound that, really, plays into the crux of Gabriel's sorely disregarded sadism. Squeaky and hurt, followed up by a whimper Gabriel's quite sure he'll never be able to get over as he watches him squeeze his thighs together.

"Hurts," Aziraphale says, purposefully stroking at Gabriel's unhatched desire to keep him in line, show him his place. (That place, of course, being right here, in Gabriel's company, relying on him for a comfort only he'll offer.)

"Good," Gabriel grins, finding his role all too easy to fall into. "it's supposed to."

And Aziraphale turns his head to jut out his lower lip at Gabriel, pouting sweetly, _temptingly._ He's trying to goad Gabriel into hurting him worse, and that - _that_ won't work, Gabriel's decided. He's not going to be pushed and prodded around by a bit of bratty behavior, no siree. He raises his ruler once more, and brings it down with an increased fervor.

" _Please,_ " Aziraphale sobs, his whole body jumping with it. "please don't, please don't, Sir. It hurts, it _hurts!_ "

And he's only toying with Gabriel, only twisting at his limits in hopes of getting him to properly _snap._ But it's working, it's working well enough for Gabriel to hit him harder, just to hear that high-pitched yelp Aziraphale lets out in response. 

"Be quiet," he demands, tossing the ruler aside, and guiding Aziraphale onto his back. He shuffles between his spread legs, shoves himself inside Aziraphale without another dash of hesitation to prelude. Aziraphale whines loudly, wiggling his hips down until he's flush with Gabriel's pelvis. 

His cunt clenches hopelessly, contracting on its own accord, and his clit's _twitching._ Twitching hard enough he almost wants to writhe away from the hot pulse of his own arousal. He can't escape it, can't endure the warmth that spreads throughout his quim, all the way up to his belly and chest. His heart's racing faster now, hammering away, tangible in his throat. And he gasps, spine arching, thighs clamping down as Gabriel fucks into him hard enough to jolt his body with every thrust. 

"Thank you," he whimpers, grateful for something he can't quite comprehend in his current state. "thank you - _o-oh,_ thank you, Gabriel. I love you - love you so much - please!"

"I know, I know, sweetheart." Gabriel says the words like he's guaranteeing a promise. They've never spoken about - never made gestures of feelings like _that,_ but Gabriel supposes he's always been dawdling over them. Avoiding actually facing the severity of his affection, and what it means, what it would mean for him and Aziraphale if they - if they were to be a _proper_ item.

Still, perhaps that's not what Aziraphale had meant. After all, there's all sorts of different kinds of love. And Aziraphale isn't one for spur of the moment confessions. He isn't one for any confessions he hasn't had pulled straight from his chest, tugged out through his mouth, and forced into the open.

But when Aziraphale cums, Gabriel doesn't stop thinking about the quiet admission. He doesn't let go of Aziraphale until he makes the final move to stand, kissing Gabriel's cheek, and heading back home. Even then, he lets his fingers linger within Aziraphale's own. Too far gone for his own good. Too _attached_ for anyone's good.

-

The fifth time it happens, Gabriel feels betrayed. Not just betrayed, but _hurt._ Hurt, and uncomfortable, and possibly with the potential to be vaguely wrathful, were he any less infatuated with Aziraphale. He doesn't hold back from dragging Aziraphale from his chair, shushing the other Archangels with something about preliminary matters, and then kissing him _senseless_ the second they're out of view. Tucked away in some rarely used hallway, one they've parlayed in before.

He's still angry, still _incredibly_ angry with him, but he's more scared than that. Scared, and for the first time in his life, feeling powerless. It'll be difficult wrangling Aziraphale out of trouble for an offense _this_ grand, he knows. And the others - they want real punishment. A punishment Gabriel can't bear to put a name to, though they've spoken no less of it than they have of how _utterly_ disappointed they are in Aziraphale.

So he has to kiss him. Because as much as he quells Aziraphale's fear, Aziraphale helps with his, too. Just his mouth, his soft, breakable body pressed against Gabriel's. Held there like a child holds a doll to their chest, clinging onto some shred of contentment. Aziraphale's gone tense, he realizes. And he doesn't - he doesn't feel the same, something's off, something Gabriel can't place.

Something Gabriel doesn't want to place, as more and more of his suspicions spiral.

"What's wrong," he asks, letting go of Aziraphale. "why aren't you kissing me? Why are you just standing there? What's _wrong_ with you?"

And it comes out harsher than intended, but Aziraphale doesn't wilt into him, Aziraphale doesn't tremble. There's no trace of that desperate, comfort-seeking angel he's so used to shamelessly cradling until the last of his weeping softens. No, this time Aziraphale's breath only comes out slightly faltered, and he steps back from Gabriel. Once, twice. It makes Gabriel's heart pound with every increment of an inch he pulls away. His chest hurts, his chest hurts - he's _burning._

"I don't - I apologise, Gabriel, I must be - I have to get going. Now." Aziraphale startles, turning on his heel, and slamming the door shut behind him. Gabriel finds himself alone once more. Without the one person who's always been there for him, and questioning everything.

**Author's Note:**

> rip in fucking pieces gabriel my boy


End file.
